


Copacabana

by velvet_and_shortchanged



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Bartender Karkat, Bartender/performer au, Cheating, Dancing!, Eventually resolved, F/F, M/M, Pining, Sexual Tension, Singer/Dancer Dave!, Two sided cheating, based on "Copacabana", denying of feelings, denying of sexuality, he's an artsy fuck, sexy times later on, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-11-05 22:38:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17927711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvet_and_shortchanged/pseuds/velvet_and_shortchanged
Summary: Copa- (co!) Copacabana... The hottest spot north of Havana (here!) At the Copa- (co!) Copacaaabaana... Music and passion were always the fashion at the Copaaa..You've been completely ignoring one of the last things on your wedding prep list. One of the most important, for fuck's sake. You'd seen Dirty Dancing and the Wedding Singer enough times to know that being able to dance was very important.And unfortunately, you can't. At all. You're absolutely horrible at, always have been, but hopefully not always will. Because David fucking Strider was going to teach you how to waltz if it kills him.And you'll be making a point to try very hard not to fall in love with him while you're at it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I apologize in advance for writing an entire Davekat fanfic based on Barry Manilow. I seriously need some help.
> 
> This is gonna have more chapters for sure. Just take the preface, y'all. 
> 
> Personal Jesus updates are once a week now! I've admittedly been procrastinating a bit but I just need to chill a bit to get things flowing.  
> Thanks for reading HS fanfic in 2019 everyone

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you can't dance for shit.

You are getting married in four months, and you were cursed with no sense of rhythm or flow. You can't even tap your goddamn foot to the music you listen to on the way home from work without getting off beat. Junior high square dancing was absolute hell- you stepped on poor Megido's feet more than the actual floor during that treacherous ordeal. But shit had to to change, and fast, because of a certain very important event that was going to change absolutely everything. But in order to cure your chronic case of two left feet- moreso one left foot and a broken peg leg- you decide to your resources to your advantage.

Money.

Cha ching, you are in fact shelling out for dance lessons. It's not like you have a lot of it, but you're willing to find someone able to put up with your surly attitude towards this whole thing just so you can dance a little bit. Cash was flowing out of your pockets and into another more well trained pair. In all honesty, they really aren't that expensive- it's not like Strider could charge nearly so much for this. 

Oh, fuck- about that. 

How fucking weird and awkward is it to get dance lessons from your wildly attractive coworker?

* * *

You had been working at the shitty bar for years. It mostly catered to teens with the shittiest of fake I.D.s, burnouts, and drunk brawlers who had gotten kicked out of the nearest strip club. It was horrible. The pay was absolutely shitty and not worth the trouble. But there wasn't a lot of options, here. Most bars weren't looking for any grumpy-demeanor-owning male bartenders that weren't willing to wear a thong. So, unless you suddenly lost twenty pounds and gained some sense of rhythm and confidence, the strip club was out for now.

But being a bartender for such a shitty place was a give and take. While the occasional celebrity or random richie showed up and showered you in drunken compliments and tips, most of the customers didn't even have the money to pay for drinks, and if they did, they sure as hell weren't being as liberal as they could be. You figured you deserved to be here- the only way you'd even gotten qualifed to do this was a miniscule bit of training, a few months at a restaurant, and your childhood friend teaching you how to make screwdrivers, gin and tonic, and screaming orgasms when you were fifteen. Yeah, laugh it up, but you'd never fuck Eridan, not then and certainly not now. For all you could remember, he was all hung up on some neighborhood swim team girl from age ten to eighteen.

Most of the tiny and relatively sketchy staff seemed like they didn't want to be here, but figured they belonged after all, too. They probably lived in the same shitty apartment as you did, ate the same three meals, and didn't really have any aspirations except for desperate and pointless dreams, now splitting at the seams with fissures caused by the crushing reality of being a bartender in the middle of a boring city. You'll still write your novels in your free time- but it's not like they're going to make any money, they're mostly for you at this point. You point blank refuse to let Kanaya micromanage you further by sharing you shitty softcore porn with the rest of the world. You wouldn't make it, anyways. You belong here- a shitty place for shitty people.

But there was definitely one person who did NOT belong in the shit hole known as the Seventh Street Rio Club and Bar. One of the very few performers you all had left was going relatively strong, sometimes singing, sometimes dancing, occasionally both. And he was good, you could admit that. His voice was smooth and sweet, and the rare times you had talked to him, he had a low Southerner drawl that could easily make any drunk sorority babe go into a hazed, drooling state in mere seconds. He seemed like a pretty quiet kind of guy off stage, but you'd seen him smoking CBD (your old roommate smoked that shit constantly, you knew the smell by now) against the bricks on his break with a slightly taller guy that seemed to be related to him. 

Dave was-

 _Well_.

You weren't going to go into the tiny crush you had on him some odd years ago, when he was little baby eighteen year old working up there and lying about his age on a decent fake license (not that it mattered). But he was, admittedly, a dreamy kind of soon-to-be-hearthrob pop singer. Lanky blond dudes who wore exclusively black skinny jeans seemed to be the biggest turn on for teen girls (and young Karkat Vantas, too).

But that doesn't matter, because you're getting married in a few months! You were handling a good majority of the wedding plans- pretty fucking odd for the man of the relationship to do, according to today's bullshit standards, but it wasn't like Terezi was going to go out licking hydrangeas and peonies to decide on the flowers. And you only had a few things left. You had the suit, you had the decorations and the caterer and the space. You sent out save the dates long ago, and the invites had gone out just a few weeks back. 

But you've been completely ignoring one of the last things on your list. One of the most important, for fuck's sake. You'd seen Dirty Dancing and the Wedding Singer enough times to know that being able to dance was very important. 

And unfortunately, you can't. At all. You're absolutely horrible at, always have been, but hopefully not always will. Because David fucking Strider was going to teach you how to waltz if it killed him. 

And you'll be making a point to try very hard not to fall in love with that fucker, while you're at it.

* * *

You watch as your target shuffles out onto the stage once more, beginning to gather up the sparse things he left. It's really just his guitar and a black bomber jacket that he left slung over a frail wooden chair. When he sat on it to play, it looked tiny compared to his lanky figure, like a grown man sitting in a child's chair (that's _exactly_ what it was, actually).

You barely catch his eye through the glaring stage lights. It was either the god awful yellow and bright white, or purple, so the property owner decided that it was best to just get a dimmer switch installed. Now, Dave stood, bent over his guitar case as he zipped it, soft yellow light spread over his back and neck.

 _God_ , he was gorgeous.

You internally chastise yourself (you are _straight_ , you are getting married to a _woman_ , you are _straight_ , you love Terezi very much) and focus solely on scrubbing at the ancient wooden bar top with rubbing alcohol. You've been told many times not to use anything too strong, lest you warble the wood, "you'll be paying for that one, Vantas". It's your own "anti everything" mixture of an unholy amount of cleaners and some rubbing alcohol that probably tastes exactly like the ancient liquors stashed in the cellar.

As you begin working an old cloth into the wood, trying to get out a red spot you believe to be a spilt Sex On the Beach, you hear the soft drumming of fingernails against the bar. You glance up, a little startled.

It's Dave.

"Uh, hey." You sound so fucking awkward, you kind of want to die even more than you already do. You've known this man for years, and you can still barely talk to him. He tossed his head slightly, flipping his bangs off his face- it was such a douchey thing, but somewhat endearing at the same time. Nah. It was just douchey. 

"Hey, man." He offered a seemingly friendly raise of his eyebrows, and the stark contrast between your voices is immediately evident. His sounds almost auto tuned even when he's talking, for fuck's sake. There's something about how his words pass off his tongue so smoothly, it's as though he's rolling them onto the air with an ink press. It's unfair how amazing his voice sounds. You've been partially cursed with a permanent case of dead voice. You get asked if you have a cold on the daily just because of how rough and scratchy it is. Man, if only those voice cracks left you alone after puberty.

"So... What's happening with Dave Strider, music and dance sensation?" You put extra emphasis on that last word, finally tearing your eyes from Dave's lips and back to the bar. His laugh was fucking heavenly, deep and fleeting, and he even tossed his head back a bit. What the hell.

"Nothin'. Nothin' ever goes on wit' me, Kar. You know that by now." You can almost _feel_ him wink at you from under the shades, and it's annoyingly cocky and makes you feel absurdly annoyed.

"Mhm." 

"Anyways, you've been givin' me a real heartbreakin' stare all night. Got somethin' y' need from me, or am I goin' crazy at twen'y five?" His voice sounds like it walked from Alabama to here and you _hate_ it _so much_. You roll your eyes to cover your embarrassment from getting caught openly staring at one of the club's main acts.

"Just, uh..." You clear your throat, keeping your eyes firmly trained on the wooden bar. You stare at a knot for what seems like hours before finally grabbing the spray bottle filled with hell liquid and squirting it along the same surface you've been scrubbing for much too long. "... was wondering if you gave dance lessons."

There was no response for just a short second, but Dave immediately replied, cheery as ever: "Hell yeah I do. It's mostly simple stuff, but if you got a kid or somethin', it's no problem." He sounded partially hopeful, but there was something almost curious and disappointed in his voice.

"No, no, I just..." You cleared your throat unnecessarily again. God, this was fucking embarrassing. You were actually asking a coworker for _dance lessons_. To learn how to do one of the simplest things ever. "... I'm getting married soon. And I- I can't dance." Your voice cracked spectacularly on the I, but other than that, you got the words out, your blush-prone face probably looking like a tomato by now. You furiously scrub at nothing.

"Oh." Now he  _really_ sounded disappointed. Probably because his coworker was so goddamn lame and pathetic he had to ask how to do a simple waltz. "Yeah, yeah, that's cool. Uh, y' got my number. Just call me up if ya wanna schedule somethin'."

You looked up at him finally, and he was awkwardly shifting his guitar from one shoulder to the other in its sling case. You finally nodded, biting down on your lip much too hard and having to resist a wince.

You barely register that Dave is walking away now, the sound of his ancient Converse squeaking on the sticky bar floor. 

"Hey dude-"

He had turned back, giving you a sad half smile. Or maybe his grin was just lopsided. Either way, fuck!

"Congrats."

For some reason, you don't feel that excited about getting married right now.


	2. Waltzing and Too-Tight Leggings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> karkat still can't dance, and Dave is too hot again.  
> Also, terezi gives the best gifts, and i shove JohnRoxy in somehow, because i always do, because it's fucking amazing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was half-half on continuing this, but I went back and reread, and now I’m pumped again. Get ready for sexual tension and pining, ft John and Dave's banter coming off as actual marriage. 
> 
> Please leave comments, even if they're literally just "AAAA" or "fuck u for this" i am starving for all forms of validation
> 
> (disclaimer: I know very little about ballroom dance, all my dance experience is ballet and jazz!! i tried, thanks!)

“Forward. Side. Together. Forward. Side- _ow,_ fuck.”

Both teacher and student cringed as Karkat made shoe-to-toe contact. (Dave always preferred to be in bare feet or socks. You insisted on staying in your shoes.)

“Sorry,” You muttered bitterly, hand readjusting under his shoulder. You slipped it away, wiping it off on your jeans, before returning your fingers to rest against Dave’s shirt. Sweaty. Not cute at all.

You were learning one of the most basic fucking steps, and _yet,_ your feet and mind were still incompetent as ever. You could make them move on their own, when you weren’t holding Dave at your side, but when his hands were locked on your waist and drifting over your shoulder, you lost all semblances of regular movement as your train of thought crashed through your skull and ruined everything. He had you practice just doing the steps at first, standing in front of the mirror in the studio he rented out weekly. You shut your eyes tight at first, just doing the step robotically- left foot forwards. Right foot to the side. Left foot to right foot. But you eventually decided against that when his hands slipped onto your side, murmuring for you to square your hips with that goddamn Southern drawl. You kept your eyes wide open after that. No more surprises.

You even managed to do it in a circle, arms held stiffly aloft, but hey, you were fucking doing it, you were dancing. You shut your eyes again, repeating the rhythm like a goddamn mantra, because you were ever so peaceful, a fucking shaman on top of one of Tibet’s great peaks. Forward, side, together. Turn. Forward, side, together. It became less stiff- your shoulders dropped, and you managed to make your knees bend more naturally. When you opened your eyes again, Dave stood behind you, water bottle in hand, an approving smile on his face.

But when it came to actually _dancing_ with him?

 _Fuck_.

You just couldn’t do it. _You couldn’t_. You weren’t entirely sure if it was because you weren’t used to doing it with someone else there, or if it was because of Dave himself. Probably a mix of both- you had to take frequent breaks, the sparks between your fingers and his made your brain overload.

You had been going at it for about two hours now, and Dave declared a five minute break after you stepped on his foot for the third time. If he just wore shoes, his toes wouldn’t hurt nearly so much. But he insisted upon “clothes you can shake your ass in”, although there wasn’t much ass shaking in basic waltzing. You figure it was a habit ingrained in his head nonetheless, considering he wore a pair of leggings _clearly_ not meant for men (they were fucking **_obscene_** , honestly) and some old t-shirt. You were still dressed in your work clothes, but when you’re a wannabr author during the day, leaving the house isn’t required, so that meant sweatpants and some cheesy Oscar the Grouch sweatshirt Terezi got you for your birthday some years back.

Every time you saw it in the mirror, you felt shame burning through you. The reactions Dave got so easily from you were fucking _pathetic_. You were doing all this for _her_. For your _wedding_. Because you loved _her_. The thought of her finding out about this made you sweat more than you already were- dance was hard. (She would probably laugh her ass off, honestly.)

For fuck’s sake, it was hard for you _not_ to be sweating up a fucking storm when your dance teacher was this hot. Not that it mattered or anything though. You certainly don’t give a fuck about whether or not Dave’s shirt was translucent in the slightly orange sunlight slipping in between the blinds into the studio, and that he was kind of ripped. Even though that was all you could see when your temporary teacher bent over to grab his water bottle and take a few swigs from it. Well, actually, you saw more than that. You saw how his neck elongated and how sharp his jaw looked with his head tilted back like that. You saw how short chunks of blond bangs fell into his face, even after he pushed all his hair back with pins (that was a fucking _glorious_ site to watch, you gotta say) and how his whole face softened when he looked out the window.

You sighed, shuffling across the floor and slipping your phone out of the left pocket of your windbreaker. A few texts from Terezi, and Kanaya trying to schedule times for you to come in and get fitted for a suit. That was gonna be annoying as hell- you loved Kanaya, but she was ridiculously strict when she got in her measuring-mode. She purposefully stabbed you with a pin last time, you swear. This time, however, you were prepared. But if you don't get back to her within the hour, she'll totally kick your ass. She does that when necessary.

Midway through a passive-aggressive email to the younger Maryam to _stop nagging you because you're coming in next week,_ you hear a phone chirping from across the room. 

“Hey, babe.”

It was Dave’s phone. 

‘ _Babe_ ’.

The word made your head spin, and you forget what you’re supposed to furiously typing to Kanaya about. _Babe_. He was dating someone. _Obviously_. He was hot as fuck, and he could sing _and_ dance? Why the hell would you think he was single? It didn’t matter anyways, of course, you weren’t single in the first place, you were getting married. But he just didn't seem like the kind of guy to be in a relationship, why was it so difficult for you to see him like that?

The crackly laugh that comes after the response from whoever he was talking to pulls you assfirst out of your daze of pondering. 

“Nah, nah. I’ll be done soon, I _swear_ I won’t be late for Ghostbusters. You know how important those dudes and their ghost hoses are to me.”

He laughed again, and you were biting your lip and staring blankly at your phone screen. 

“ _Woah_ , okay, whatever. I haven’t perfected my ghost hunting terminology. You better not dump me for Roxy again, though.”

He paused, and you bore a hole into your sneakers with your eyes, fingers just hovering above your phone screen. The day when you get laser eyes is the day you lose every single one of your toes.

“Yeah, whatever. Watch me cook dinner like a good husband. I'll put on the little sexy apron and everything.” God. He was _married_. He was _married_ , and you were wondering if he was single. What the actual _fuck_ is wrong with you. Your brain is so ridiculously fucked up that you _actually considered_ having some sort of fling with a hot guy that works at the same place you do, right before your _wedding_. You are an absolute piece of _shit_ , a massive scumbag who does _not_ deserve Terezi, does not deserve _any_ of this, doesn't even-

“Karkat? Still with me, man?”

Dave awkwardly waving his hand in front of your face snaps you back to life. But your fingers are frozen in their position above your phone screen, which had darkened slightly since you hadn't touched it for a minute or two. You blink, looking back up at him, and just shook your head, reaching up to fuss with a coarse curl of hair hanging in front of your eyes.

“Fine. Fine. I'm just tired. We can finish this up next week, right? Great. See you then.” The questions were entirely rhetorical, as you spoke much too fast for him to understand what the hell you were saying in the first place, and you didn't give him time to answer nonetheless. You just grabbed your jacket and dashed on out of the studio, through the double doors, down the stairs and past the gate. You were going home, and you wouldn't talk to him, or even THINK about him, until next week.

Well-

You would _try_.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shuddup. Seriously, though, I'm not gonna do any stupid shit."
> 
> And then you went and did some stupid shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hnngh i got caught up in my delayed vampire Halloween fic. I think I'll keep writing for it though! I've grown to love struggling™ karkat. Here's a chapter from Dave's perspective! I think I'll bring in some Terezi/Vriska next ;)

It took nearly a week for Karkat to call you back.

Fuck, you _really_ wish you could pretend that you hadn't been waiting for his call desperately. It was so goddamn sad. But you didn't have much else going for you, so every little bit helped at this point. Working at the club barely paid enough as it was, and the small studio you rented out for ridiculously cheap cost money, too, so giving dance lessons was kind of an important income source right now. Hell, maybe stripping could be an option if it came to that.

Being a broke twenty two year old isn't exactly a walk in the fucking park.

You.. Weren't _exactly_ sure how you felt about giving dancing lessons to Karkat, though. The two of you had been coworkers for four years, and barely spoken to each other in that time anyways. It wasn't like there was reason for the both of you to interact, though. He was a sullen, broody bartender who looked like he was almost thirty when he was just scraping twenty three, and you were the One Direction reject now playing at a shitty club because you had an okay voice and a pretty face.

And that's how it should probably stay.

But there was really something going on here, you _swear_. Karkat was an absolutely terrible dancer, you knew that from the beginning. The boy had two left feet, neither of which he could control. You sometimes wondered how he even walked, with how imbalanced he was. It took nearly two classes of just teaching him the basic waltz step, and then an extra one where you just pressed your hands into his hips and pressed, trying desperately to keep his hips squared. It worked, kind of. He seemed a little flustered, but he was a high strung dude. Wasn't too much of a surprise.

And things were going well, all things considered. He was attractive, and getting married, and you were happy for him. You haven't had a boyfriend in fucking _forever_ , and every time you see him, you feel just a bit more alone. But you can be professional. It's not as though you haven't worked with attractive male clients before, this really shouldn't be so fucking weird for you. Come on, Strider, hold out.  _You can do this._

"Hey, Karkles. I wanna try something."

You had been sitting down today as Karkat quietly swayed in circles, practicing the step over and over. He was improving, for real. It was kind of cute, seeing the way he hummed the little waltz and watched his feet. You would typically accompany him, but you overstretched like a total dumbass yesterday, wholly fucking up your hamstring, which currently was in an Ace bandage and hurting like a bitch as you popped Ibuprofen every four to six hours. It was _totally_ worth it to see his face when you pulled your toes up to touch the back of your head, though.

"What?" He asked, sounding defensive and nervous. Introducing new material was risky with him, but that wasn't really what you had in mind. You stood, bracing yourself against the shitty wooden chair and shaking the few stray pieces of hair out of your eyes ( _damn bobby pins you stole from your sister never stayed_ ). 

Limping slightly, you made it over to him, bending a knee and setting one hand on his waist, taking his other and holding it in a light grip. You offered a sheepish grin. 

"I can't really fuckin' dance _real_ well 'cause a my damn leg, but if we go slow, 'm sure it'll be fine," You offered.

Karkat chewed at his lip for a moment, clearly thinking it over.

"Yeah, whatever, sure," He muttered, wiping his palm off on his jeans before gripping yours again, taking off in a robotic circle, replicating the moves you had taught him perfectly. 

And like a damn robot. His fiance wasn't gonna be into that shit (oh, yeah, he had a fiance).

Ehh, not what you were looking for.

"Hey, hey. Fuckin' _relax_ , a'ight? Just lemme-" You slid your hand down, curving with his hip, and stepped forwards, placing your head on his collar and letting him lead. Hopefully that would get him to loosen up.

He was quiet, no hums, just still for a moment, before slowly stepping forwards, side, together, in a neat circle. There we go. It always took him a few tries, but he'd get it eventually, his shoulders would drop and he'd take a deep breath.

He had gotten so much better in the past few days, to the point where you frequently shared your conquests with your friends. Well, friend, and two sisters. Occasionally Dirk, if he would listen. You recalled the conversation you'd had with what could be considered your best friend a few nights ago as the two of you swayed in circles.

 

"Dude, you _never_ shut up about this guy! I thought you only taught little kids, anyways. What's with the sudden change of heart?" John teased that night as you sat on your crappy blue futon, watching Die Hard. He had been out with Roxy the night before, and you quickly staked your claim on Bro Time before your older sister could snatch him up with her pink talons. You didn't care at all that they were together, except that she _totally_ took up his time.

You shrugged, tossing an unpopped corn kernel at his face as John McCain blew some shit up in front of you two. "I dunno, he _asked_? He's a grouchy fucker, and he's shit at dancing, but he's really making an effort. It's sweet."

 _"Oooh_ , someone's got a _crush_! Dave, you better not do some stupid shit." 

You elbowed John, rolling your eyes. "He's getting married soon, dumbass, and he gives off self-proclaimed 'straighter than a line of coke' vibes."

"Are you sure you aren't just describing the classic 2009 Dave Strider branding?" He teased once more. You offer another eye roll. 

"Shuddup. Seriously, though, I'm not gonna do _any_ stupid shit."

 

* * *

 

And then you went and did some stupid shit.

Back to now.

You were just dancing. It felt so nice and natural, one of your arms resting against the small dip of Karkat's hip, the other held lightly in his left hand as he guided you two in circles, your head resting against the collar of his sweatshirt.

"Thanks for actually putting up with me long enough to help me be able to do this shit..." He murmured against the top of your head a moment later, and you briefly opened your eyes. You didn't even notice they had closed. 

"Yeah. No worries, dude." Your voice was casual, but it was softer to match his tone. You didn't want to ruin the quiet monent the two of you had some how gotten into.Were you having a moment, here? Yeah, kinda. But it really didn't matter. Karkat was getting married, and you were a failing musician. Just because you happened to sway together so naturally didn't mean shit, you were just a good teacher. 

The sunlight had been streaming through the slanted glass windows on the side of the windows all afternoon, and just now you could feel the rays beginning to dim. It wasn't that late, it was just winter, but the whole deal made you drowsy, and the dim studio lights didn't help your case. You didn't want to move from this spot, you and Karkat's feet quietly sliding across the floor in sync, his no longer tripping over yours and stepping in the wrong directions.

"You've come pretty damn far, y'know. 'Specially in such a short time. You've gained some _real_ damn skills, Karkles." You added after a minute, sighing against his chest. He smelled faintly of vanilla, like girls' soap, which was about twenty times better than most of the shitty men's stuff, admittedly.

You could practically feel him scrunching up his nose at the casual nickname. He absolutely _hated_ it, and he had since day one, which is precisely why you used it consistently. Of course, the other reason was the way his whole face scrunched up in this cute way when he got kind of pissed, but not mad enough to do more than roll his eyes or mutter.

You slowly pulled your head up, and it lolled forwards tiredly, and you got a five star view of some of the very faint freckles across the bridge of his nose. Not anywhere close to the ridiculous number that you had, no, but he had mentioned at some previous point he had lived on the coast for a while. His eyes were a satisfying, bright grey, definitely more memorable than most of the blues and browns you typically saw. You figured he hadn't ever seen your eyes before, now that you thought of it. Even in the club, you wore a pair with a slightly lighter tint, and for good reason. Your eyes were ridiculously photosensitive, but the club was definitely dark enough not to wear any. However, red eyes weren't exactly a best selling flavor of the month at Baskin Robbins.

You finally pushed them up onto your forehead, partially hiding the gesture by rubbing at your left eye as well, blinking to meet his eyes. He looked a lot different, clearer and lighter, when you took the sunglasses off obviously, but there was just something comforting about his face.

Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said about his expression. It was softer than the one you had received from many when they caught a glimpse of the bright red behind the black tinted plastic, but still a little bewildered. Fuck, you couldn't blame him. Weird eye color ran in the family, Roxy and Rose having almost violet tinted eyes, and Dirk's brown having shifted to an orange over the years. It wasn't something you really liked showing off.

You chuckled nervously, rubbing at the back of your neck. Nervous, actually. "Uh- sorry, probably shoulda given a heads up about the freak in the r-"

"Shut up, I _like_ them, jackass."

Eloquent.

Your feet both came to a stop, and now you were both just awkwardly in each other's arms, standing in the middle of the studio.

"It's, uh, getting dark. I can give you a ride home," He mumbled, finally breaking the silence and slipping his hand out of yours, sliding out of your grip and going to grab his grey windbreaker. You shook off the comfortable feeling that had settled over you, tugging your hoodie over your head and grabbing your water bottle. You shrugged at his request. 

"The bus is fine, dude. A guy offered me some free CBD yest-"

"Actually, no, let me rephrase. I _will_ give you a ride home, which means you _can't_ fucking say no, because it's dark out, and I'd rather the headline tomorrow be something other than 'Young Adult Male Found Murdered In Ditch Holding Shitty Weed'."

You laughed shortly, but shook your head, beginning another protest, but Karkat turned and interrupted you again, quickly shutting you down.

"Stop being a humble fucking bastard, which I didn't even know was possible in the first place, and just get in my fucking secondhand Toyota, jackass," He muttered, stepping out through the creaky old wooden door. You sighed, following behind him, but were glad to accept the ride anyways. The bus was full of weirdos this late at night anyways.

He was parked down the block, and after locking up the studio, you two walked alongside each other down the sidewalk in the partial dark, and his car chirped at the two of you as you approached it. 

After sliding into the passenger seat and driving half a mile in silence, he pulled up in front of your apartment complex, sighing softly. "Here, right? Shitty brick building that wouldn't survive an earthquake, if I remember correctly."

You chuckled, nodding sheepishly. "Thanks for the reminder, dude. I'm totally gonna get crushed when the walls cave in eventually." 

You looked to him, grinning widely, and he just looked at you for a moment. Almost wistful. Like he wanted something that you couldn't give him right now. You two sat in silence for another short moment, looking at each other, red against grey. Your grin quickly faded into a look of questioning.

"What? Is there mustard on my face or some shit?" You asked, tilting your head.

He quickly shook his head, and he opened his mouth to say something, before shaking it again and snapping his mouth shut. The door unlocked with a click, and his gaze drifted to the steering wheel. 

You slipped out of the door, closing it carefully behind you (he said it could be finicky sometimes). 

"Dave."

He had rolled down the window to call back to you, and you turned back to him, looking at him. He had that expression on his face again. It was the same look he wore before, but braver, more confident. 

Karkat grabbed you by the collar of your shirt, tugging you back to the car, and you stumbled over your feet on the sidewalk as your lips crashed together. It was messy and badly aimed and generally a disaster, but it was supposed to happen, you could feel the desperation between the two of you meant something, there was something there and you had just needed to get it out there. 

The kiss was over in an instant, and you looked at each other, softly panting for just a second, before leaning back together to slot your lips together more carefully, your hands coming up to rest on his cheeks. They were warm and soft, and you easily dragged your thumb over the smooth surface, one finger catching on a scar. 

He drove away moments later, leaving you dazed, wanting, and really fucking confused.


End file.
